Too Much to Handle
by otherhawk
Summary: Sometimes you need to walk into hell to save your partner. Sometimes even when he thinks he doesn't need saving.


**A/N: For the 'What's my line?' challenge on Section VII - the prompt was "Too hot to handle".**

* * *

The area around the bunker was a hive of activity. At least a dozen temporary buildings seemed to have sprung up, and the whole place was covered with some sort of plastic dome, beneath which men in heavy hazmat suits darted around with urgent purpose. Smoke billowed from a handful of generators connecting to pumps and pipes, and a haze of heat left the air trembling. It looked like some nightmare of the end of the world, Napoleon thought, as he stood and suffered the connections on his own suit to be checked and double checked.

"Alright, Mr Solo," Wilson said nervously. "So just to recap, this will offer you limited protection from the heat and the radiation, but you need to be careful. Stay in the marked area only, don't touch anything, and obey any instructions the technicians give you immediately. And keep an eye on your dosometer badge," he added, pointing to the large silver triangle on Napoleon's chest, as though he was worried Napoleon might have somehow missed it. "It's carefully calibrated to fill up from top to bottom, so if the bottom layers start to turn black you really need to get out of there."

"Thanks, Wilson," he said. "How are you finding life outside the lab?"

Wilson just looked at him. "I want to go back to New York," he said flatly. He swallowed hard. "You know, I really shouldn't be letting you in there. Mr Kuryakin was very definite about limiting the number of people inside the bunker as much as possible."

"I outrank Mr Kuryakin," he reminded Wilson patiently.

That only made him look more unhappy. "Alright," he said again. "Now, remember you're only supposed to stay inside for thirty minutes. The suit should keep you safe for up to two hours, but we don't want to take any chances."

He nodded. "And how long has Mr Kuryakin been in there?"

"Um... " He looked down at his clipboard. "Seventy five minutes. This time."

"Uh huh." He smiled tightly. "Thank you for all your assistance.."

He pulled on his helmet and checked the seal, and then let Wilson check it again. After all, he really _didn't_ want to take any chances.

There was a complicated airlock arrangement to get close to the bunker itself, ending in a metal hatch over an empty elevator shaft. Someone had fixed up a mechanical elevator - a platform, at least - and he stood in the eerie silence, feeling remarkably alone as he descended into the darkness. He could feel the heat rising closer, and eventually he spied an eerie red light below him. Huh. Apparently the road to hell was an elevator. Who would have guessed?

When the elevator finally came to a stop he walked out between pipes and hoses, through the cleared rubble and the massive metal blast door now blackened and buckled, and then he found himself standing in what last week had been one of THRUSH's most advanced atomic research facilities.

There was a heap of bodies - bones, really - lying near the doorway, charred and twisted almost beyond recognition. He found himself staring, sickened and yet unable to look away. A grey substance had pooled around the joints and beneath the skeletons, and with a cold shock he realised that there was the flesh, literally melted from their bones. There was an arm outstretched, looking almost as though it was reaching towards the door, as though whoever this had been had died desperately trying to get out.  
God. It hardly mattered that they'd been THRUSH; they were still people. With an effort, he turned his head. Already the top of his badge had turned black. Time to press on.

The path was well marked and he didn't stray from it. It was difficult to recognise a lot of what he was seeing. Walls had been blasted apart, furniture burnt or melted in that initial blast. The heat only grew worse the further in he got thick and heavy and oppressive, it was like walking into a furnace. Already he could feel the sweat creeping down his back. If he stayed in here too long, he might just poach in his hazmat suit. That is, if the radiation didn't kill him first. With a sort of macabre thrill, he wondered how long he could survive here without the suit, and whether the heat or the radiation poisoning would provide a quicker death. It was the kind of question he knew he didn't want answered.

After what felt like forever but in reality was only a few minutes, he emerged into what had once been a control room or something, just outside the main lab, and here at last were people, spraying some sort of foam over the concrete walls. It might be Napoleon's imagination - he certainly _hoped_ it was his imagination - but it looked as though the walls were bulging slightly, glowing, as though they were struggling to contain some massive heat on the other side.

Illya was standing with a couple of the team from the Atomic Energy Commission, judging by the logos on their hazmat suits. It was funny; even despite the fact he had his back to him and was covered from head to toe, Napoleon had no problem recognising Illya immediately. Something in the body language, he thought, as Illya gestured intently towards the AEC boys, apparently right in the middle of directing their next efforts.

"Everything we have seen suggests that this was an accident, not a triggered explosion, so we should be able to compress the concrete without risking further explosions."

He didn't want to interrupt. Illya had been the first on the scene, and he'd been responsible for coordinating the firefighting efforts, literal and figurative. He stood to the side where he'd hopefully be out of the way and waited patiently.

The strangely-shaped shadows on the wall behind him caught his eye for some reason. He frowned, tracing the shapes, trying to figure out...oh. He swallowed hard. They were people once.

According to the reports, the explosion had come from the inner lab area, which was through the wall that they were trying to cool right now. It must have torn through the windows and killed those people where they stood.

He turned to look, wondering if they would ever know how many had died here. It wasn't as though THRUSH was rushing forwards with personnel records, looking to trace the missing. And they already knew the name of the only casualty not from THRUSH. Martin Ablett. Newly promoted to Section II, and all of twenty-four. Napoleon hoped it had been quick. He couldn't hope for any more.

A glint from the floor caught his eye. Frowning, he stooped to get a closer look. It was something black – shining? He reached his hand out.

"What are you doing?" Someone grabbed his shoulder and hauled him back roughly, and he wasn't at all surprised to hear Illya's voice. "Do not touch that, it will burn right through your glove. Who are...oh," he finished flatly, as Napoleon turned around and this close they could see each other's faces even through the darkened visors. "It's you."

"Hi," he said mildly, and it wasn't like he'd been expecting a warm welcome.

"What are you doing here?" Illya asked flatly. "I'm working. And this is no place for you. I told Wilson to only let essential personnel in."

"I'm essential everywhere," he said lightly.

Illya turned away and bent to examine a pipe. "I'm not in the mood, Napoleon," he said. "Get out of here. This bunker is dangerous, and I am working."

Napoleon followed and stood behind him. "You've not been answering your communicator," he said, as neutrally as he could.

"Funnily enough, it does not appear to work down here," Illya said, making a show of looking around.

"Right," Napoleon agreed. "But you could answer it when you go back to the surface after the twenty minutes it's safe for you to stay down here. Couldn't you?" He leaned around a little and pointedly looked at Illya's badge. Over two thirds of it was black.

Illya didn't pause in what he was doing. "I am being careful, Napoleon. I am well aware of the risks and I am paying attention to the maximum levels I can tolerate."

"And not answering your communicator," Napoleon repeated. "I've been trying to contact you. We need to be in Lisbon tomorrow - "

" - I am currently working with Section VIII," Illya interrupted harshly. "Which you are not the head of."

He paused. "No," he agreed softly. "But these are Mr Waverly's orders." _I'm talking to you as your friend,_ he added silently. _Please. Don't call my bluff._ If he called Mr Waverly now and said that Illya was refusing his orders, Illya would be relieved of duty in record time. Already the fact he was still here, not checking in was causing tension.

"This facility needs to be made safe," Illya pointed out, voice low and full of fury, and Napoleon knew he wasn't really the target, but he was here and Illya was angry and sometimes that was enough. " _We_ were the ones on the scene. _We_ were the ones who THRUSH was acting against. This is my responsibility."

"This is _UNCLE's_ responsibility," he corrected. "And no one is saying we aren't going to stay right here, working to clean up this..." Words failed him. Disaster. Hellhole. "Working to clean up this facility," he finished. "But there are others who can take over from you, equally trained and whose job it is to deal with this sort of incident. We're needed in Lisbon. THRUSH agents have infiltrated an anti-independence group with some plan for a large scale demonstration. I think we can assume they don't have peaceful means in mind."

"Doesn't this organisation employ any other agents?" Illya asked, and the anger was still there but more than that, he sounded weary.

"I need you," he said. And Illya needed to get out of here.

"Yes," Illya said remotely standing up straight and turning round. "Alright. Let me just handover to Collins."

"Don't take too long," Napoleon instructed, tapping lightly on his dosometer badge.

He waited as Illya stepped over and had a few words with one of the CEA agents, who clapped him on the shoulder either in thanks or commiseration, Napoleon wasn't sure. Then he came back and walked right by, leaving Napoleon to follow in silence.

Silence, he could live with, for the moment at least. He paused at the bones at the entrance. "What's going to happen to them?"

"Radioactive," Illya said briefly. "They'll have to stay there."

Forever. Right. He shivered.

It was a relief to get out of the awful heat, even if they were immediately rushed into the decontamination process – hosed and scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. He watched Illya closely, taking note of the shadows under his eyes, the way his hair was lank with sweat. There were burn dressings around both his palms.

He nodded towards them. "What happened?"

Illya's eyes were remote. "You are not the only one who touches things he should not." He turned to the agent in charge of decontamination – whether it was one of theirs or the CEA's Napoleon honestly wasn't sure. "We are done here?"

"Thank you," Napoleon added, when it became obvious Illya would not.

They walked back into town. It wasn't far, which was a frightening thing to contemplate.

"There has been very little radiation leaking out," Illya told him. "Barely above background level, in fact. Whatever their failings in lab safety, the THRUSH researchers were sensible enough to conduct their experiments within a lead lined bunker. All we are trying to do is make the bunker safe enough that we can seal it off forever."

He nodded. He'd read the reports. And still, seeing the little town entirely emptied of people; cars and shopping carts and school satchels just left lying abandoned in the street...it was unnerving. It reminded him of how much worse it could have been. Illya had worked quickly to get the town and the surrounding area evacuated as soon as he'd been aware of the accident. There was a cover story about a plastics fire giving off dangerous fumes – it had been enough to make people want to stay away at least.

"We've taken over the hotel," Illya said, nodding to a large, sunny building on the corner with a sign proclaiming it to be the Weatherlea Hotel. "I've a room on the second floor."

"Oh, so you have actually been sleeping?" Napoleon asked.

Illya smiled tiredly. "From time to time."

The hotel was just as empty as the rest of the town, with plates and glasses left lying abandoned in the bar, although Napoleon wondered if the resident's had left them lying or if it had been the rescue workers.

Silently, he collected a bottle of vodka and two glasses and followed Illya upstairs.

It was a twin room. He recognised Illya's case at the foot of the bed nearest the door, a black turtleneck thrown on top, but the other bed was also unmade, and there was a suitcase lying open on top, full of silk shirts and brightly coloured ties, and there was a book left lying on the pillow. One of those Ian Fleming spy novels.

Martin's things, he guessed. Left just as they had been the day he died.

He turned and looked at Illya. "Are you trying to drive yourself completely out of your mind?" he asked, just a little more gently than his tone suggested.

Illya shrugged. "I have not had time to attend to such matters," he said, sitting on the chair by the window.

"Okay." He poured a generous measure of vodka into a glass and pressed it into Illya's hand. "Drink."

"What time is it?" Illya asked with a frown.

"Half ten in the morning," Napoleon said levelly. "But unless you're going to tell me you've been keeping regular hours lately, I think we can forgo the normal social mores."

Illya looked at the glass in his hand for a long moment. Then he threw half of it back in a single swallow. "Whatever happened to Lisbon?"

"There's an overnight flight," Napoleon said. "We'll be on it, don't worry. Drink."

He nodded as Illya did and quietly set about tidying Martin's belongings back into his case. He'd make sure someone sent it back to New York. There would be family who should have it. He didn't bat an eyelid when he heard Illya pouring himself more vodka. This was about getting rid of that wall Illya had built up around himself.

Carefully – gently – he laid the suitcase in the bottom of the wardrobe. Out of sight, out of mind, and Martin deserved better he knew, but after all, Martin was beyond his help now.

"It should have been me," Illya said, so quietly Napoleon almost missed it.

He turned slowly. Illya was staring out the window through his empty glass, giving no indication that he was even aware Napoleon was in the room.

He took the seat opposite and poured himself a drink, if only to make it seem like Illya wasn't drinking alone. "He was young, but he knew the risks," he pointed out quietly. "He was willing to make that sacrifice. Just as we all are."

Illya pressed the glass against his head. "No, I mean it _should_ have been me," he said. "I was going to go undercover as the engineer. If I had, it would have been me inside the lab, not him. But he said he could do it. He _wanted_ to do it. He was so eager that he should impress me..." He sighed heavily. "I agreed. Perhaps if I had not, if I had been the one in the lab, this would not have happened."

"You said that this was an accident," Napoleon reminded him carefully. "Not a deliberate explosion. So that suggests that it was nothing to do with Martin at all. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Da," Illya nodded bitterly. "The place and time that should have been mine." He reached out and grabbed the bottle and filled the glass to the brim.

"Easy," Napoleon murmured, and he didn't exactly mean the drinking. He could make the cold calculation that as an organisation they needed men of Illya's experience far more than they needed raw, green enthusiasm; and he could make the sentimental confession that he was _always_ going to be glad that Illya was alive; but none of that exactly answered the point. "You know there's nothing I can say that's going to make this better. Not for any of us. It's all wrong. Martin shouldn't have died. No one there should have died."

"I was talking to him just before," Illya said abruptly. "He said there was something wrong. Said he was going to get a closer look. Then I felt the earth shake. I ran to the bunker door. Tried to open it." He laughed darkly and held his bandaged hands up. "Fortunately, it was too hot to handle, or else I might just have killed everyone in this town. The pain brought me to my senses and I called the CEA, started evacuating everyone."

"You did good," Napoleon told him. "I doubt many others would have thought so quickly or worked so hard."

"It's not over, Napoleon," he said.

"But it is for you," he said, gently but insistently.

"Right. Lisbon." Illya took another long drink and stared unseeingly ahead of himself. "Should we be worried that you are intent on getting me drunk before we leave?"

"There's time yet," Napoleon said. "You can sleep it off." And file all the memories of horror and grief and loss away. Compartmentalisation could be a wonderful thing. "Listen to me, Illya, none of this was your fault. I've read the reports. Sometimes you can do everything right and still everything goes wrong. You know that as well as I do."

"Knowing does not always help," Illya said, his eyes closed tight. "Not when the wrong is so great."

"I know," Napoleon said. He'd felt that way too. Sometimes all that helped, even a little, was knowing he wasn't alone.

"Napoleon? I think I would like to rest now," Illya said.

"Of course," he nodded, and he stood and took the half-empty glass out of Illya's unresisting fingers and pulled him towards the bed. "Sleep for a few hours. I'll let Mr Waverly know our travel plans and organise a car."

"Spasibo," Illya said sleepily as he lay down.

Napoleon smiled. "Pozhaluysta, It's my job to rescue you, remember?"

Illya blinked. "I was not in need of rescue this time."

"Of course not," Napoleon agreed, his hand resting lightly on Illya's shoulder, and he stayed there until Illya was asleep.


End file.
